Jeremy Sinclair’s POV
The war tent reeked of smoke, blood, and burned herbs.
I stood over the large oak table at the center of the tent, one hand braced against the wood as I studied the spread of maps before me. Red markers covered more territory now than they had an hour ago. The eastern defenses were collapsing exactly as planned.
Still not enough.
The Last Growl Pack was wounded, but not broken yet.
And I wanted them broken.
A scout entered the tent hurriedly, bowing his head despite the blood soaking through the bandage wrapped around his arm.
“My Alpha,” he said carefully, “the eastern wing is nearly ours. The witches’ suppression spells are weakening their wolves faster than expected. Many can no longer shift.”
A slow smile pulled at my mouth.
“Good,” I murmured. “Tell Sele
